


Nose

by shinguji



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Body Dismorphia, Gender Dysphoria, Happy ending! :), Hurt/Comfort, I think that’s the right term?, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of MADD, Mentions of Murder, Multi, Non-binary character, Polyamory, Rated M for non-sexual nudity and non-graphic descriptions of blood, Toko’s the center of a polycule, Trans Female Character, Trans Fukawa Touko, Trans Shinguji Korekiyo, Very self-indulgent... I wrote this on a whim for comfort, kind of, mentions of DID, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-25 10:08:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22154317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinguji/pseuds/shinguji
Summary: Toko Fukawa hates her nose. Her partners are intent on making her love it.
Relationships: Fukawa Touko/Naegi Komaru, Fukawa Touko/Shinguji Korekiyo, Fukawa Touko/Sonia Nevermind
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	Nose

**Author's Note:**

> Please keep in mind that this IS a vent, but it has a happy/hopeful ending. Check the tags for more <3

I hated my nose.

In the plainest language possible, it was big. Bigger than what I knew as the definition of beauty, bigger than what most people I met in Japan had, bigger than what any girl’s should be.

It was masculine, American, a forty-five degree angle save for the wretched Roman bump in the middle. At least it held up the bridge of my glasses. 

Maybe if I had gotten my nose from my mother, I would know who she was. My life would’ve been a lot easier. No constant writing for escapism, no murderous alter, no pacing the house until my feet bled and I passed out from looking at it. But I got my nose from my white father, obviously.

It was riddled with acne, violent little bloody specks of grease and testosterone, brilliant, glaring red against pale, sleep-deprived skin. 

It was hideous, a far-cry from the feminine grace I longed for, from the normalcy of having matching features: the small and thin I so desired, with dainty, round edges that melted into each other, not my awkward and lanky with jagged bones that sliced against my sharp jawline. 

I hated it. It was everything I would’ve loved in someone else, something I could write page upon page about, something masculine and strong and dignified and handsome, angular and cuttingly cold. 

Why did I write it into faces of fiction with such ease, but when I saw it real, concrete, looking back at me in the mirror through smudged glasses, I took them off to make it blur away?

Why was it beautiful in other people, but not in me?

Somehow, my partners found beauty in what I couldn’t.

Komaru kissed my nose, praised it, poked it lovingly. She assured me of its beauty, its strength, its feminine poise. She traced her fingertip down its aquiline ridges and told me it radiated confidence. It told her stories of my struggles and how I valiantly overcame them, of how I emerged a better woman, of how I was unbreakable. Each pore held poetry, although she promised that mine was better. I leaned my head onto her shoulder in a display of what I thought to be weakness. She frowned and told me this was strength. We were resilience, living proof of it. I inhaled. Her hair smelled like strawberries.

My nose could smell Sonia’s native Novoselic pastries in the oven, baking to an elegantly sweet crispness. She spun around in her apron and pressed a kiss to my cheek, hers brushing against the pointed tip of my nose. She told me I was just as sweet, tender, beautiful as her desserts. When I let my feigned annoyance crumble and ate one later, a part of me believed she was right. My glasses slipped down as I looked at the pastry, and she pushed them back up with her pinky finger.

In the shower with Kiyo, my nose dribbled pathetically as they ran soapy hands over the fresh wound on my leg. It was part of our routine: when I stumbled home with blood on my dress and no memory of the events preceding, they helped me clean up, told me stories. I did the same for them. They wiped a spot of blood off the bridge of my nose, babbling about European history in their soothing voice, their chin on my shoulder. They promised that every part of me was deserving of love, of theirs, of Komaru’s, of Sonia’s. My hand traced my bare nose absentmindedly, taking in the smell of their soap.

Running my hand over my flat chest, bumpy with acne, cradling my hand under my jawline, running a fingertip up my cheek and down my nose, I decided to stop hating the mirror.

I was a beautiful kind of strange, every bump and angle a new adjective I could describe myself with. I could be feminine, strong, sweet, loved.

It was far from perfect. I was far from perfect. But I was a work in progress, and that was good enough for me.

**Author's Note:**

> I know most of you probably came here expecting just Tokomaru and got this bullshit instead... sorry. Anyway, I have a long-running negative relationship with my nose and acne, but I’m trying to be more positive :) As always, I appreciate any and all feedback!


End file.
